


your lovely orbiting

by demios



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aetheric Intimacy, Dancing, Fluff, Other, blatant misuse of dark knight abilities, shb spoilers? but mostly speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 23:51:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19030489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demios/pseuds/demios
Summary: An indulgent moment of rest away from home.





	your lovely orbiting

**Author's Note:**

> listen i know i'm jumping the gun here but you can't just show me the 5.0 drk skills and not expect me to lose my entire mind...i'm absolutely slain

“Dance with me?”

The question itself is innocuous, softly asked over the hum of muted music from outside, save for the fact that there is no one else in the inn room to receive it.

From above, light refracts through the domed crystal roof, familiar yet foreign all at once. The rays pass through each jagged fault of the Mothercrystal in the same way, except there is no blinding blessing behind them. Though the chronometer on the wall reads past dusk, the sky is bright. The only indication of the day’s end are the uneven patches in white clouds, pockets of stardust and endless dark hanging over their head in a moth-eaten tapestry.

What tasks lie ahead will no doubt be arduous, but a sliver of night among the all-consuming brilliance is enough cause for celebration. The music from the streets of the Crystarium is sweet and joyous - a song of relief, to know their stalwart stand against the flood was not in vain. The words and melodies are nothing like the ones from home, but even they can gather that much. The first stirrings of hope in war are universal, no matter the cause or foe. The thought brings the warrior a measure of peace, a sense of that they were doing something _right,_ at least.

The warrior of light - or perhaps, _warrior of darkness,_ now - neglected to join the festivities after carrying the day, content to listen from their temporary quarters. They found themselves yearning for a moment of reflection, fragments from the last battle replaying in their mind. Divine light, the weight of their sword, a guiding hand of pitch on the hilt of their blade to make each swing more savage than the last-

The aether shifts from beneath the soul crystal in their palm, the sigil engraved into the stone glowing slowly like a heartbeat. Faint disbelief and slight annoyance brush the tip of their senses when an answer finally comes.

The voice is low and sounds almost like their own, but different enough that they’ve learned to recognize the firm tones echoing in their skull. “You _cannot_ call upon me for something so…”

“Mundane?” Because they are far from the thick of battle, clumsily trying to summon another body to fight alongside them. The room is quiet and lined with unusual trinkets made of glass and gold. _Caladbolg_ rests against the wall - cleaned, of course - no longer humming with the vestiges of runes or dark magicks.

“Childish.” Fray finishes. The pool of aether stirs beneath the surface, conjuring the image of sallow irises rolling from under the shade of a helm. It lasts but a second at the forefront of their consciousness.

“You’re going to let me dance alone?” They ask, sounding as offended as they possibly can through their growing smile. “And look _ridiculous?”_ Not that they’d have any witnesses aside from the firmament through a crystal lens.

“Yes, because this is _definitely_ the first time I’ve watched you make a fool of yourself.” Fray snorts.

The music floating through the room has dropped to a lull now, nothing feverish and striking to accompany the dancers’ passionate displays in the Eulmore markets. It is slower, closer to a languid waltz played by the tipsy bards in the Forgotten Knight.

The warrior of light holds one hand in front of them, imagining the weight of another palm in theirs, with fingers fitting perfectly between the spaces of their own. Waiting - because Fray, with a sharp tongue and frigid demeanor, acquiesces to their nonsensical request.

Aether coalesces and coagulates with a purpose, and Fray materializes in the room as if pulled by their soul from the nadir. A short gasp escapes them upon being formed, a habit that grants them the fragile illusion of being alive. A vibrant, molten gold fixes on the warrior, but they are otherwise a phantom plucked straight from the mire. Their shape settles on what is approximately a knight, features barely defined with a body made of the same dark cosmos torn from the heavens. Perhaps it would seem unsettling to another, but the warrior only feels a fondness unfurl in their chest when their other half is by their side.

“Never had the chance to attend one of those Ishgardian balls Jannequinard always liked talking about.” Muted amusement tinges the warrior’s voice.

“As if you would want to.” Fray scoffs. “Stiff formalities never suited you.”

Fray does not hesitate to take their hand like the many times they did in the past, braving the depths of Ishgard guided only by memory and lantern light. The warrior remembers being led around stone and spires like lovers in the city after dark, listening to their voice and how it was always so warm and clear in the soundless snow.

They spoke of borrowed memories, cursing the city with all the fervor of a dying breath. They regaled the warrior with tales of dark knights past - cautionary accounts of monsters and those who slayed them, the beasts cloaked in holy robes more often than mail of pure night. They recounted lessons from their master, always quoted with the utmost reverence and an echo of admiration. Fray never spoke of themselves, but the small quaver in their soft voice was the closest they got to discerning who their companion might be, under their armor and barbut.

All of it unfolded on a backdrop of snow flurries, or on rare nights when the sky was clear with northern lights dancing in the distance. The mists churned beneath them with each step on broken stone, Fray always gazing into the thick clouds below when there was nothing to be said. The warrior remembers each breath of cold air burning their lungs, much like how Fray seemed to be burning with unfathomable emotion in the silence.

The forays aren't necessary anymore, but they give Fray’s hand a small squeeze when it settles in theirs, one that says, _I missed you._

They’re less solid than a frozen corpse in this dance, their form flickering out of existence when the light catches their cloak of pitch in the wrong way. There is a hand on the warrior’s hip while theirs rests on the knight’s shoulder. Their free hands are clasped together as Fray lets them lead this time in stuttered, unsure steps that almost seem like a proper waltz. Fray doesn’t have any smart remarks at their attempts, simply following their lead even when the stray rays from above chase away fragments of their body.

Their grip wanes intermittently, the warrior’s hand phasing through swirling aether. But when they reform, they always find their grasp as if they had never left. Fray sways with them, matching their movements in perfect sync like the shadow they are.

The song is over far too soon for their liking, and the warrior reluctantly stills their motions, lessening their grasp on their mirrored phantom.

“Thank you.” The warrior murmurs, finally letting go of Fray’s hand and shoulder. “You must be tired. Here.”

They place their palm on their sternum, meaning the embrace of the abyss. They weren't skilled at summoning Fray for extended periods of time, their companion eventually dropping to one knee and dissolving after overextending themselves.

Fray shakes their head. “I can't. At least, not yet.”

The refusal gives the warrior pause, but they wait for Fray to speak again, watching their gaze from where they are but a breath apart. The hand on their hip hasn't fallen away, armored fingers gripping them a modicum tighter.

“Do you remember what Fray Myste said, calling out to you that day on a snowy street?” They ask, closing their eyes to relive the chimerical synthesis of a dead knight’s memories and a hero’s resentment. It bloomed beautifully in a haze of black aether, vicious and visceral when it wove its way into their core.

They stood in the Brume, only there to guide when they wanted nothing more than to protect - to protect those Fray Myste had left behind, taking shelter in the Forgotten Knight once the Inquisition caught wind of them. To protect the fool of a hero standing before them, gasping for breath when they experienced death in all its bleak glory. To protect them from that same death, those same last moments of desperation entangled in their soul crystal when they had so little of themselves left to give.

It was everything about them, laid bare for the taking in lightless eyes. Someone who was prepared to sacrifice everything but wasn't ready to die, weightlessly sinking into someone who had already sacrificed everything but could not yet die. The warrior hadn’t heard it then, but now it is as clear as day.

The warrior answers slowly. “They… _you_ wanted to live. And if you couldn’t have that, you wanted someone to remember that you lived.”

“Aye, I did. And that's why I can't leave. Because you want someone to remember _you,_ away from home.” Fray says. “Not the warrior of dusk and dawn that slays god and villain alike, but the fool who has a heart that bleeds too damned much each time they fight. The same one who wants for company so badly that they've asked me to dance with them in an empty room.”

The streets outside are silent now, the warrior steadily becoming aware that their world has narrowed to just themselves and Fray. It is calm with an underlying current all at once, holding the promise of something that quickens their pulse.

“You’ve been strong all this time - relinquish it, for just a moment.” Fray is pressing against them now, closing that gap and burning holes through them with their gaze. “You've carried the day time and time again. Let me carry you.”

The warrior’s breath catches in their throat. The offer is - _enticing,_ terribly so, when followed by softening gold. “What do you propose, then? Another compromise?”

“I’m asking you to trust me.”

“You needn’t ask for that.” They let a small smile rest on their lips.

Fray holds out their hand, asking for another dance. The warrior entwines their fingers in the pitch and darkness flows between them like thick, coagulated blood. The warrior offers themselves to them, letting the abyss swell, focusing on the hand that could be their own, and Fray _takes_ with a grateful sigh. It is a hushed communion, with only a subtle change in Fray’s constitution. They’re still composed of black ink, but they’re a bit more solid now, of void that swallows the light instead of being dissipated by it.

“What do you need?” They ask, casting the semblance of a shadow onto the ground and walls. Fray knows the answer already, but they allow themselves this indulgence, the pretense of being corporeal.

“I want to… I want to feel mortal.” Just for a bell, to rest without the burden of fate upon their shoulders. They’ve never said it aloud, but it’s just what Fray wants to hear.

“Then I can help.” The corners of their eyes crease when they smile, the aether about them both mischievous and mirthful.

Fray gathers them in their arms, and they don’t struggle when the other lays them on the bed. They spare a glance overhead to temper the anticipation beginning to course through their veins, fixing on the crystal window and watching the heavens turn without urgency in the pockets of night sky. They feel akin to one of those oft-harrowed Ishgardian astrologians, peering into the glass of an astroscope.

They're drawn back to the matter at hand when Fray spreads the warrior’s knees and fits themselves between their legs. They are face to face with their shadow, the knight poised over them and hands planted on the sheets beside their head. The warrior grasps the back of Fray’s neck, tentatively pulling them down until their forehead meets a gilded halo.

They let out a shuddering exhale as Fray watches them keenly, unmoving when their brow quirks, silently daring the warrior to continue before they take the reins. They are tantalizingly close now, except Fray is bereft of lips to claim when their helm is affixed to their head. Instead, the warrior does the next best thing - they hold the sides of Fray’s face, fingers brushing the cloth of their barbut, and press a kiss to the front of their faceplate.

At the contact, they can feel the aether shift again, and this time they definitely know Fray is fondly rolling their eyes from under guarded steel. The warrior’s lips are tugged into a smile, their heart drinking in the way Fray relaxes into the almost-intimacy as if they were truly bared. They bask in the sweet gesture, until the warrior pulls away, having satisfied another sudden whim.

Fray takes the opportunity to sit back and begin tugging off the warrior’s shirt, hiking up the fabric starting at their hips. The revealed skin holds scars, their armored fingers tracing over them with steel that makes them shiver. They trace one patch of discolored skin carefully, no doubt recalling its source. Fray is always attentive here, gentle when their hands catch on seams welded together by crystal light and unkind aether. They dislike dwelling on scars, ever an advocate of forging ahead, but they allow themselves to impart a silent reverence into the marred surface.

There is no pliant give of flesh on flesh, but Fray’s light touches are an adept substitute. The metal of their vambraces grace every ilm they have to offer carefully, lovingly. Fray is unbreakable ice, as harsh as a frozen lake in the Coerthan highlands, but here they feel closer to snow, the same flurries that would dust the Brume on a winter's morning. It leaves a pleasant tingling sensation in its wake, one that makes the warrior forgive the cold of the room and the body between their legs.

A palm rests on the warrior’s sternum, feeling their heartbeat. In the back of their mind they wonder what would happen if Fray were to put more of their weight into each press, if they would sink back inside of them, to breach their ribs and take their heart in hand.

(Although, that wouldn't be any different from their current state of affairs, now would it?)

The warrior watches them with muted fascination when they resume, letting out a happy sigh or ticklish gasp as the other travels up their stomach, up to their chest and collar. Fray continues their task until the shirt is fully gone, pulled over the warrior’s head and tossed aside. Their faceplate brushes the warrior’s cheek when they turn their head and it carries the distinct feel of cool metal against warming skin. The warrior privately laments that it lacks any softness resembling lips.

“I’m not supposed to do that.” They warn, reading the other’s desire. Makes it too real, when they're not meant to be warm or solid.

They're toeing the line with the latter already, digging the fingers of their gauntlets into the warrior’s hips. They squirm, restless when Fray’s hands are just above the embers that have begun kindling in their abdomen.

“Be still, damn you. I'm doing you a _favor.”_ A puff of laughter brushes their corner of their mouth when Fray chuckles lowly, adjusting themselves between the warrior’s legs until-

The warrior suddenly jerks, biting back a surprised cry. The first thrust of Fray’s hips on their own sets their nerves singing, their gut dangerously tightening and twisting as they gasp, unprepared. Fray presses against their most sensitive parts when they grind themselves against the warrior a second time, the glint in their eye nothing short of devious.

They lean forward, casting themselves over the warrior again to achieve a better angle. Fray braces themselves on the sheets and _moves,_ this time in earnest. Their thrusts are slow but unyielding, intent on making the warrior feel every arc of motion and minute shift of weight. The entirety of it tilts towards vulgar instead of the tenderness before. From where they are a captive audience, it looks like Fray could be fucking them even though it's nothing more than teasing friction though the fabric of their breeches.

The erotic sight is enough to tear a moan from their throat when a hot flash flickers through them like fire. The warrior thinks their vision might be growing bleary from pleasure, because Fray seems to be losing definition the longer they try to focus on their shape. But their eyes haven't betrayed them - Fray is a void of viscous tar, dripping like hot wax. It falls into nothingness when it lands on the surface of the warrior’s skin, fading into the air as mist in the sun. Though _nothingness_ might not be the right term - the warrior feels each drop of condensed aether when it seeps inside, sending jolts of pure arousal right to their core.

Each swell of darkness washes elusive sparks over them, but more than that- they feel _safe,_ being held by Fray. Their aether is saturated with a humming, sighing affection, tinged by the deepest part of oblivion yet burning impossibly bright.

Can darkness be bright, they wonder. Fray certainly feels that way, undoing the warrior’s resolve with the intensity of their devotion.

 _Let me carry you,_ they had said. The warrior isn't sure where to put their hands when they're desperately trying to hold the fragments of themselves together. Fray is relentless, driving forward and deepening each fault until their composure shatters. The warrior’s arms wrap around Fray’s neck, losing themselves to the frantic sound of their heart with Fray to anchor them.

They're close. Fray controls each ebb and swell with their body and aether to forcibly drag them away from the brink of release. They are on edge, flushed with quiet, labored breaths escaping their nose. They want to turn from those eyes burning into them, but the way they’ve caged the warrior between their arms leaves no room for escape of any kind. Fray has them at their mercy.

The warrior faintly registers the light touch of a hand at their jaw, then their chin, a thumb catching their bottom lip so they cannot seal the needy noises filling the air.

“What is it you need?” They ask again. This time the question is framed teasingly with Fray intently watching their every expression. There’s nowhere to hide from their gaze when they halt their rhythm.

The warrior can only choke out a whimper. Fray eagerly receives the pathetic whine that falls from their lips.

“You’re going to have to tell me.” Another thrust, the bed creaks from the firm movement of Fray pressing into them, their loins unbearably hot and wet. “Use your words.” Fray smiles.

Fray knows - of _course_ they know, and yet they are bent on wresting this from them in one of their most undignified moments, the smug _bastard-_

“I want to _come,_ damn it.” They growl, frustrated, and they have half a mind to bite the thumb resting at the corner of their mouth, to draw blood or murk or aether when their teeth sink into it. They resist the urge. For now. “Touch me. Please.” Their voice is thin and strange to their ears, sounding like a foreign surrender.

The leather of a glove slips into the front of the warrior’s smallclothes, brushing the throbbing flesh they've been grinding against. It has them near thrashing, pleasure sharply coursing up their spine as they eagerly roll their hips against Fray’s hand. They're guided by instinct, head lust-addled and thoughts of pride and decorum faraway.

Fray knows just how they like to be touched and wastes no time in stroking the places that make their thighs tense and quiver. They are dexterous, but work at a steady tempo that doesn't overwhelm or become painful. Their glove has become slick, the precise drag of their fingers easily and decadently sliding between their legs. The warrior’s veins feel alight, and for a moment crystal blessings do not exist, smothered by Fray when they are a black sun, eclipsing the heavenly light filtering into the room.

The warrior bares their neck, and one finger of a gauntlet traces a line down their hot pulse. The edge of the armor is not enough to cut, but cold and sharp enough to make them gasp when the sensation accents everything else.

Just like the song from before, it is over in an instant. The pleasure peaks without prelude, and the warrior cries out, tensing and twitching and seeing stars like the ones dancing between parted clouds in the sky. Fray’s hand stays on them after the initial shock of it, slowly stroking the tender flesh until the last of their climax passes. The warrior shivers when the other finally pulls away.

Fray murmurs their name quietly as they remember how to breathe, syllables that they've nearly forgotten when hidden under every title and epithet. It coaxes them back to the present, lightheaded and on their back. Fray is absently tracing runes into their cooling skin, ones they've become intimately familiar with when they flit across steel and plate - _power, protection, loyalty, resolve._ Somehow, that is the motion that melts away the last of the tension in their taut muscles, exhaustion settling deep into their bones.

Fray catches their gaze and the warrior smiles at them, tired but sated. Fray’s touch fades and they toss the covers onto them before they can truly become cold.

“Sleep. Twelve know you'll need your strength come morning.”

“What about you?” They ask, senses dampened by a haze of pleasure.

They've reclaimed most of their aether in this unorthodox communion. Fray’s form had started to wane again, the light viciously biting into parts of their body.

“I'll rest with you when you close your eyes.” A glove presses on their chest, a final burst of black aether flowing between them. This time it soothes, holding a clear message when it falls into the depths of the abyss. _I’ll be by your side._

In the breath before they fade into the calm night, Fray’s eyes crease at the corners one last time. “And if you should need me again, you know where to find me. You need only ask.”


End file.
